Nick Drake traded his past for the Sheriff’s star, but Harney County doesn’t do election honeymoons. His tenure kicks off with a double homicide staged as a murder-suicide—a lie Nick isn't buying. As he digs into the crime’s rotting core, the rookie Sheriff finds himself fighting a war on two fronts: a lethal learning curve with unproven deputies and a political recall designed to bury him. In the high lonesome where secrets kill, Nick must strike first and strike hard. Because in this office, the only thing shorter than his term is his life expectancy.
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The Yellow Hair
Chapter 1
Potholes on a road I’d never traveled
before grabbed at the wheels like a bad conscience seeking redemption. It led
to a ranch east of Burns surrounded by withered hayfields scratched out of a
dead sea of sage scrub. Tumbleweeds hung on rusty strands of sagging barbed
wire. The wind-scoured house and barn looked ready to give up the ghost. If the
call that brought me out proved true, the owners already had.
A brand new 1980 Cadillac Sedan de Ville was parked out
front. The color made me think of the old saw about red skies in the morning.
The driver’s door opened and released a cloud of cigar smoke followed by a big
man wearing a pearl snap-button shirt and stockman boots. He set a summertime
Stetson atop his crew cut and eyed the seven-point gold star on the door of my
rig.
“I take it you’re the new sheriff,” he said. “I heard Harney
County had a special election to fill the boots of the old one who got hisself
killed.”
“Nick Drake,” I said. “And you are?”
“Red Caldera.” He chuckled. “Yup, I know, heckuva moniker.
My folks idea at being clever. Pleased to make your acquaintance, though the
situation inside is none too pleasing. Couple been dead a week, be my guess.”
When I didn’t make a move toward the house, he clicked his
cheek. “I woulda thought you’d charge right in, but maybe you don’t know you’re
s’posed to on account you’re new to sheriffing.”
“If they’re dead like you say, what I need to know first is
why you went inside uninvited.”
The straw cowboy hat reared back as he aimed his double chin
at me. “Now, hold it right there. I didn’t do nothing wrong. I’m the one called
it in and I’m the one been cooling my heels on a hotter than a firecracker
morning waiting for you to show up.”
Caldera took a suck on his cigar and waited for an apology.
The smoke and stink were akin to a big rig slamming on the brakes.
“Okay, okay, have it your way,” he finally said. “I knocked.
Didn’t get no answer. Hollered a hello. Still nothing. Thought they might be
’round the back so went to have a gander. Glanced in the window as I passed by
and saw what I saw.”
“Which was?”
“Both of ’em in the kitchen. One still sitting at the table,
the other sprawled on the floor.”
“And you went inside to see if they needed help,” I said.
“No, I knew they was dead. The bloat. Like a cow swole up in
a pasture before the buzzards get to it. You follow? I went in to use the phone
but it was as dead as them. Had to use the CB in the Caddy to get patched
through to your office.”
“Touch anything else in the house?”
“Hell no. Only the phone. Couldn’t wait to get out of
there.” Red Caldera’s jowls flapped when he feigned a shudder.
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